


The Parting Glass

by glitteringconstellations



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: 4 + 1 fic, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Langst, More Bitter Than Sweet, very bittersweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 21:27:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14065926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteringconstellations/pseuds/glitteringconstellations
Summary: But since it falls unto my lotThat I should rise and you should notI’ll gently rise and I’ll softly call,“Good night, and joy be to you all.”Four times Lance held his teammates, and one time they let him go.





	The Parting Glass

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not explictly tagging any major trigger warnings because of the nature of the work, but in case you need them, **[trigger warnings can be found here](https://glitteringconstellations.tumblr.com/private/172060111684/tumblr_p5vm9gMWqQ1wwtjk3)**. A more general warning: this is not a happy fic. If you're looking for fluff, this is not the place to find it. 
> 
> Also, recommended listening: [The Parting Glass - Peter Hollens](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3hMdoGet2A8).
> 
> Edit: NOW WITH ART! I received an unexpected bit of money for my birthday so I decided to commission an illustration of the last scene. The lovely art is done by Toto (found [here on tumblr](https://ccooooostuff.tumblr.com) or [here on twitter](https://twitter.com/eeocc))! I hope you all enjoy my birthday present!

* * *

  _Of all the money that e'er I had_  
_I spent it in good company_  
_And all the harm that e'er I've done_  
_Alas, it was to none but me._

* * *

 

Lance found Hunk in the kitchen, amidst a mess the likes of which Lance could only describe as _catastrophic_. Like, a natural disaster-sized mess. Saying it looked like a tornado ripped through was the understatement of the decapheob.

Cookies of every imaginable shape and size littered most of the available counter space, although some of them looked more… palatable than others, Lance noticed. Some were charred to a crisp, others misshapen with lumps of unmixed flour and raw batter.

Hunk, for his part, looked rather distressed about the whole ordeal. He was elbow-deep in a new batter, muttering to himself when Lance came up to peek over his shoulder. Lance recognized the powder blue of the space equivalent of cinnamon dotting the lavender of the batter.

“Ooh, snickerdoodles!” Lance cooed. “My favorite.”

Hunk paid him no mind, continuing to stir the batter while muttering the counts to himself. “Three times clockwise, three times counterclockwise. Three times clockwise…” Lance chuckled, not unkindly.

“Relax, big dude. You’re going to give yourself a hernia working that hard. Or tennis elbow. Baker’s elbow? Anyway, they’re going to turn out great, just like they always do.”

But Lance knew better than to physically interrupt Hunk when he stress-baked. More than once, he’d come away with bruises on the back of his palms for trying to sneak a taste. So instead he busied himself with perusing the different kinds of cookies. Hunk continued muttering, rolling the now-solid dough into a ball about the size of a pomegranate and pinching off bits to portion out.

Despite the variances in the cookies, Lance noted, with piqued curiosity, that all of the cookies seemed to be failed attempts at snickerdoodles. It was curious, he thought, because Hunk had long since perfected the recipe with the substitutes they had to work with.

And yet here Hunk was, making _another_ batch of snickerdoodles—Lance counted at least seven cookie sheets on the counter.

When he came back around the counter, Hunk was pulling another rack out of the oven and replacing it with yet another sheet of dough. This batch seemed more-or-less edible; Hunk seemed to think so, too, because his friend pried one off the pan with the spatula and blew on it a couple times before trying a tentative bite.

“Well?” Lance asked, nudging Hunk in the ribs. “Don’t keep a man waiting! What’s the verdict?”

His response was Hunk wrinkling his nose up in disgust and throwing the cookie back down on the pan with such force it all but disintegrated on the pan. “Still not right. _Quiznak_.” Lance almost reeled with surprise.

“Come on, man, they can’t be _that_ bad.” He itched to taste them, but he hung back. Hunk seemed more upset than a failed batch of cookies would typically warrant. Lance frowned. “Hunk? You sure you’re alright, buddy?”

Shoving the newest batch aside, Hunk spun around and reached for the cabinet with the purple space flour for, by the looks of it, the eighteenth time. Lance had only half formed the thought that it probably wasn’t a stretch to assume Hunk made twice the amount of cookie dough than had actually made it to the oven, when the container tipped from Hunk’s hands. Lance dove to catch it; alas, he missed, and the kitchen exploded in a cloud of lavender dust.

Lance spluttered and coughed, waving at the air in front of his face. When the dust settled, he expected to see Hunk immediately going for the dustpan to clean up the spill. A dirty kitchen was the sign of an amateur chef, he always said.

But Hunk hadn’t moved.

He only stood there, covered head to toe in flour, staring at his hands. Lance’s gaze turned to follow Hunk’s, and he saw how violently his friend’s hands trembled. Hunk clenched them tightly into fists after a moment, and Lance thought he heard Hunk’s breath catch in his throat. He looked back up in time to see Hunk’s face crumble, tears glistening in streams down his cheeks as he made no move to blink them back.

A moment later, Hunk sank into a crouch, curling in on himself and grabbing at his hair as he began to openly weep.

Lance’s heart broke. “Oh, Hunk…”

He quickly knelt beside Hunk’s quivering form, throwing one arm over his quaking shoulders and rubbing comforting circles on his bicep with the other. Hunk shuddered at the touch and only wept harder, his dark knuckles going white in his hair. Lance murmured what he hoped were soothing words in Hunk’s ear, swaying with him as Hunk rocked himself back and forth on his heaving sobs.

“You’re okay, you’re okay…” he murmured. “Just cry it all out. It’s alright…”

It hurt, watching his friend unravel. It hurt even worse, knowing there was really nothing he could do about it except hold him through the worst of it. But he’d long since lost count the number of times Hunk had held _him_ while he cried, and if holding him was all he could do, then he’d gladly return the favor. He knew all too well that a good cry could be therapeutic, at least for him. He hoped it would be for Hunk, too.

How long they sat there on the kitchen floor, Lance couldn’t tell. But finally, when Lance was sure Hunk’s legs must be cramping for being in such an uncomfortable position for so long, the sobs tapered off into sporadic hiccups and the occasional loud sniffle.

“There we are,” Lance said with a tentative smile. “Feel better?”

Hunk wiped at the snot and tears and flour on his face with the back of his sleeve, and gave a final, almighty sniff. “I’m alright. I’m fine.” He nodded once, as if to convince himself of the words. “I’m fine. I can do this.”

“You can do this,” Lance echoed, firmly. He took that as his cue to sit back and allow Hunk to get to his feet. “Want some help cleaning up?”

To his surprise, though, Hunk didn’t go for the dustpan. Instead, he went bent down and reached for the forgotten container of flour. Most of it had spilt all over the floor, but when Hunk held it at eye-level, Lance could see it had enough to make maybe half a dozen cookies or so. Hunk nodded once more, determination settling in on his face.

“I just gotta get this right,” He said, so quietly Lance almost didn’t hear it.

Lance held no small amount of awe, watching as Hunk turned back to the counter and dumped the mixing bowl, giving it a quick rinse and a scrub before starting the whole process from the beginning again. His face was still splotchy, and he still looked miserable, like he might start crying again. But the frantic energy he’d been exuding earlier had dwindled, and he squared his shoulders as he set about his task.

When he left Hunk in the kitchen, he left knowing that Hunk would be okay.

 

* * *

  _And all I've done for want of wit_  
_To memory now, I can't recall_  
_So fill to me the parting glass_  
_Good night, and joy be with you all._

* * *

 

He ran into Allura and Coran next, in the navigation room.

It wasn’t unusual to find Coran there, mapping their next course of destination, but Allura usually trusted Coran’s judgment instead of making him justify their course to her. Although Lance couldn’t be sure that’s what they were doing, either, really. They were talking in low tones amongst themselves. One of Coran’s arms was draped around Allura as she rested her head on his shoulder, her arms crossed tightly across her chest.

“…should be arriving in Asenbel’s star system within the next few vargas or so,” Coran was saying when Lance got close enough to hear what they were saying. “I’ve already notified Queen Luxia of our plans. She assured me that it would be the highest honor for her people to assist us.”

“That is assuring,” Allura murmured, her gaze focused on the planet projected before them. “And we are sure that the necessary arrangements are being made?”

Coran nodded. “There are some things that will need to be prepared upon our arrival, as we lack the materials aboard, and I did hear Number One say he wanted to do so by hand. But yes, Princess. The available rebel forces are en route as we speak, as well. Number Five’s brother has taken the liberty of spearheading the organization of their number. They will collect the Queen and her people and bring them to the rendezvous point.”

The words themselves seemed logical as always from Coran, but something about the way he said them gave Lance pause before he announced his presence. He worked around a lump in his throat, feeling an awful lot like he was intruding on something. Like it wasn’t just operations planning he’d barged in on.

Allura sighed, her back still turned to Lance. “I wish dearly that this wasn’t the only way.”

“As do I,” Coran murmured in response. “But the alternative is a risk we cannot afford. You know that.”

“I do know that, but… It isn’t fair, Coran.” Lance frowned when he heard the quiver in Allura’s voice. Coran’s arm tightened around her.

“The universe isn’t oft fair, Princess. We were lucky that Number Four thought of Asenbel to begin with. At least this way, we have some semblance of a plan.”

Lance wondered if it would be inappropriate to join in on this hug. He really wanted to hug Allura and tell her everything would be okay. Something told him she wouldn’t appreciate that, though, so he hung back. He should probably leave, he thought, but he couldn’t bring himself to. Not just yet.

“We are doing all we can to do this properly,” Coran continued. “Even if the situation isn’t… ideal. We will make do, as we always have. How is it that Number Three always puts it…? We shall ‘keep calm and carry on.’”

Lance felt warmth flood his heart. That was a regular joke of his, one that usually was met with groans from Pidge and Hunk and a smirk from Shiro. He said it so often it was almost a personal motto, at this point.

It seemed to be the wrong thing to say, though, because instead of the tiny giggle he expected from Allura, she visibly winced.

“How can I carry on,” she whispered, “when it feels like I have failed them all so?”

“If you’ll allow me to be frank with you?” Coran asked. Allura simply nodded. Lance expected him to say something like _you haven’t failed anyone_ or _you’re doing the best with what you were dealt_.

He didn’t expect it when Coran opened his mouth and said, “This time, we all have failed.”

Lance’s mouth fell open, dumbstruck. A quiet gasp past Allura lips, her whole form going tense. But Coran’s arm still held her firm as he spoke on. “The burden of fault is not yours alone to bear, Allura. We all carry this weight on our shoulders. It is up to all of us to make it right, by whatever means are within our power. And if that means carrying this duty out on Asenbel, then that is what we must do.”

It did not go unnoticed, the way Coran’s voice went tighter and tighter, like he himself struggled to fight back tears. Allura drew a hand up and pressed her fingers to her lips, but it did not stifle the small whimper that escaped her.

When she turned her head and began weeping softly into Coran’s shoulder, Lance threw caution to the wind. “Yeah, nope. Bring it in, it’s hug time.” He hoped his own voice didn’t sound wrecked as he crossed the span of the room and wrapped his arms around them both. Coran shivered and drew Allura in closer, and Lance could see the tears that finally slipped past the man’s eyes.

He couldn’t help but wonder, when neither of them said anything, if they’d known he’d been there all along.

 

* * *

  _Of all the comrades that e'er I had_  
_Are sorry for my going away_  
_And all the sweethearts that e'er I had_  
_Would wish me one more day to stay._

* * *

 

Lance found Keith in the training room. Big surprise there.

No, really, it _was_ a big surprise. Ever since Keith had left with the Blade of Marmora, the instances of seeing him on the Castle at all were few and far between. Even then, the visits were brief, he usually was accompanied by Kolivan and hung out at the bridge with Shiro and Allura, and he hadn’t seen Keith in anything but the black and purple fight suit in… he couldn’t remember how long.

So it came as a surprise to him, finding Keith in his Earth clothes facing four of the seemingly indestructible training dummies alone. He clearly had been at it a while; his hair was drenched with sweat and plastered to his face and neck, and he was panting heavily from the exertion.

Blinking past his shock, Lance called out to Keith with a friendly wave. “Mullet! Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!”

Keith ignored him. Lance huffed. Some things never did change, he guessed. To be fair, he figured Keith was probably hyper-focused on not getting shot at by a bullet drone. Keith was just like that; he’d never been very good at multi-tasking. Lance settled for leaning against the wall inside the door and watching Keith train.

Something about the way Keith moved usually left Lance almost envious. There was always fire in his motions—he had been the Red Paladin once, after all—but also a grace that made him seem fluid, like water. Or molten lava. Always action, never reaction, charging straight through and keeping one step ahead of his opponent.

Today, though, Keith lacked any of that grace. His movements were jerky, and he seemed to be on the defensive. It wasn’t that the fire was gone; if anything, the fire burned brighter than Lance had ever seen it. But it seemed that Keith was running on that fire alone, all messy swings and running half second behind every move the dummies made.

Keith was distracted.

With every passing moment, Keith seemed to struggle a little more. He growled loudly in frustration and threw his luxite blade to his other hand when he took a hit in the shoulder that even made Lance wince. A dummy landed a roundhouse kick square in Keith’s other side and he doubled over, but he recovered his stance in no time. He managed to parry a sword coming at him from a second dummy, but a third rushed in and he had to disengage and only just ducked in time.

“You’re losing your touch, samurai!” Lance called, joke clear in his tone but unable to help the touch of concern. He half-wondered if he should call the session himself; Keith never did know when to quit.

Keith took a running start and slid between the legs of a fourth dummy and brought his blade upward with a vicious swing and a furious shout. The dummy went down in a shower of sparks, and Keith drove his blade through the belly of another one on the backswing. Lance let out a low whistle.

“Okay, spoke too soon. Got it,” he muttered.

Even in taking out two of his opponents, Keith still faced bad odds at two against one. Lance watched as the dance evolved into more of a chase, as Keith was forced to go on the defensive again. He eventually abandoned the knife, flinging it with the force of a fast-ball pitch toward the further dummy. It cleaved right through the dummy’s head, lodged firmly into the metal as the dummy collapsed to the ground.

But that left Keith weaponless with one opponent left, and Lance hissed on a sharp intake of breath. Was Keith planning on going toe-to-toe with a dummy made from _carbon steel_ with nothing but his fists?

Apparently, the answer was yes. Yes, he was.

Keith gave something that could only be described as a war cry as he charged in, fist raised. The dummy caught it easily, taking him by the wrist and flinging him across the room. Keith was back on his feet in a heartbeat, charging back in like a wild animal. The second time, the dummy swept Keith’s feet out from under him. Keith simply rolled out of the fall and sprang back up. But Lance could tell the exhaustion was wearing him thin.

“Keith, that’s enough,” Lance called over to him. But still Keith persisted, each time being thrown a little further and getting back to his feet a little slower. If Lance didn’t know any better, he’d say Keith’s lip looked like it was busted. “You’re getting your ass handed to you, in case you hadn’t noticed!”

The dummy caught Keith around the middle the next time he charged, flipping him effortlessly over its shoulder and slamming him into the ground. Keith gasped as the wind was knocked out of him; Lance gasped aloud himself. “Hey! Come on, man, you need to call it!”

Keith didn’t call it.

Shiro did.

“End training sequence!”

Before the dummy could continue to literally stomp Keith into the ground, it immediately ceased all movement, powering down and collapsing in a useless pile on the ground beside Keith. Lance’s head snapped up to his left, watching as Shiro walked right past him toward Keith in the center of the room. Lance hadn’t even heard him come in. Keith still heaved for breath where he lie, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“That was incredibly reckless of you,” Shiro said, crossing his arms over his chest. Lance nodded fervently.

“Yeah! You tell him, Shiro! He wouldn’t listen to me,” Lance pouted, his frown deepening on his face. But if Lance could count on anything, it was that Shiro always had a way of talking some sense into Keith where no one else could.

“…it wouldn’t have killed me,” Keith muttered at length, not moving his arm to look at Shiro.

Something flashed over Shiro’s face, so quickly that Lance thought he might have imagined it. Then he blew an exasperated sigh past his lips, running his flesh hand over his face. He looked exhausted. “Keith…” he started.

“It’s fine,” Keith interrupted, cutting off what surely was a stern lecture on self-preservation. “I get it, I screwed up. Won’t happen again. Help me up?” He finally lifted his arm from his face and held it out. Shiro hesitated for only a moment, before reaching down and grasping Keith’s arm near his elbow and helped to hoist him to his feet. Keith went with a groan, and yeah, Lance could see now his lip was _definitely_ busted. He’d probably be black and blue later, too, from how much he’d been tossed around like a ragdoll.

Shiro stared at Keith as he dusted himself off, not meeting Shiro’s eyes. “We’re about to land on Asenbel, right?”

Ah, the old deflect and redirect. An avoidance tactic if ever Lance had seen one. Luckily, it was one that Shiro clearly saw right through, because he leveled an unimpressed look at Keith. “Look, we need to talk about—”

“We don’t need to talk about anything,” Keith snapped heatedly. “If we’re almost there, I’m going to go get cleaned up. We have a lot of work to do when we get there.” He stalked past Shiro, brushing their shoulders together roughly as he made for the door. Lance crossed his arms in a shadow of Shiro’s stance and sent his best _Really, dude?_ look Keith’s way. Keith’s gaze remained pointedly fixed on the floor.

“ _Keith_.”

Shiro’s voice was sharp like steel, brooking no argument, and it was enough to get Keith to stop in his tracks only a few feet in front of Lance and the door. His head hung low, so Lance couldn’t see his expression, but his shoulders hunched forward defensively. For a moment, silence hung tense over the room. Shiro took Keith’s silence as cue to keep talking.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Keith flinched like he’d been slapped. He hunched even further forward, if that were even possible, and Lance didn’t miss the way his hands clenched tightly into fists at his side. Shiro sighed again and crossed the room to him, placing a tentative hand on Keith’s shoulder.

“You can’t blame yourself, Keith. It _wasn’t your fault_. You weren’t there, you couldn’t have done…” Keith mumbled something that Lance couldn’t make out, and Shiro paused, trailing off mid-sentence. “What?”

“I said, it should have been me!” Keith cried, whirling around and swatting Shiro’s hand away. His eyes were bright and his cheeks were splotchy. Shiro’s eyes went very wide. “You’re right, I wasn’t there when I should have been! I should have been there. I should’ve… it should have been me.”

“No, it shouldn’t have,” Shiro said, his voice quiet but strained. “It shouldn’t have been any of us. But we didn’t… didn’t see it coming. _We_ weren’t quick enough. This is on us, not you. We were the ones who failed.”

“But if I’d been there, I could’ve—!”

“There’s no point in ‘what if’s, Keith. What happened, happened, and we can’t change that.” He didn’t look any happier about that fact than Keith did. “If anything, I’m glad you weren’t there. That you didn’t have to… didn’t have to see it.”

Keith breathed heavily, hanging his head again. Lance’s stance loosened, his expression softening. Of course Mullet would blame himself for something that wasn’t his fault. It was so typical of him. Lance felt kind of bad for judging him now. “Shiro’s right, you know,” he said. “No one blames you for leaving. You did what you thought was right.”

“I should have been there,” Keith said again, shaking his head and still not looking at Shiro.

“You’re here now,” Shiro said. He reached for something Lance couldn’t quite see with his metal hand, his flesh hand reaching out for one of Keith’s clenched fists. Lance could have reeled in shock when he saw what it was that Shiro pressed into Keith’s hand.

The red bayard. Had Shiro had that with him the whole time?

Keith stared at it for a long moment, like he couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. Lance saw the moment it clicked, though. Keith went completely stiff. “No,” he said forcefully.

“Keith…”

“ _No,_ ” Keith said again. His voice shook. His whole being shook. “I—Shiro, I can’t.” He tried to push it back into Shiro’s grasp, but Shiro took his other hand and closed it around the handle.

“Whether or not you want to continue with the Marmora, that decision is entirely up to you. I can’t force you to stay. But…” Shiro drew a long breath, and Lance hated that he could see the way Shiro struggled to keep his composure. “We need you, Keith, now more than ever. _Please._ ”

They stood at an impasse, neither moving for so long that Lance thought for sure Keith wouldn’t actually accept the bayard. But then his fingers closed around the grip, and Shiro let his hands fall away. Keith stared at it, clutching the bayard so hard his knuckles turned white.

Finally, he let his arm fall limp to his side, still holding firm to the bayard. “Damn it,” he choked, clenching his eyes shut tight. “I said I wouldn’t cry.” He stepped forward, letting his forehead drop against Shiro’s chest as if to hide his face. Shiro instantly pulled Keith closer, his flesh hand coming to rest on the back of Keith’s head.

Lance couldn’t take it. He straightened from where he still leaned against the wall inside the door and closed the distance between them, once more mimicking Shiro and putting a gentle hand on Keith’s shoulder. Keith’s breath stuttered over stifled tears.

“You don’t have to hold it in, Keith,” Lance murmured. “It’s okay to cry.”

A moment later, Keith did. His free hand came up to grip the back of Shiro’s shirt like a lifeline, pitiful gasps the only noise he made as his shoulders trembled. Shiro’s composure finally crumbled, tears trickling down into Keith’s hair as he cradled Keith close.

If Lance shed a tear or two of his own, well, neither of them commented on it.

 

* * *

_But since it falls unto my lot_  
_That I should rise and you should not_  
_I'll gently rise and I'll softly call,_  
_"Good night, and joy be to you all."_

* * *

 

Pidge was the hardest to find of them all.

Lance had looked in all her usual haunts; Green’s hangar, the game room they’d set up, the learning deck where she spent hours upon hours teaching herself Altean. But there was no sign of her.

The Castle had touched down on Asenbel about a couple of varga ago, when the planet’s two suns were nearing the highest point of the noontime sky. He understood that Pidge was essentially part gremlin and didn’t particularly enjoy the outdoors, but it’d been a significant amount of time since they’d seen anything but the endless depths of space and figured she’d at least want to see Asenbel on their approach. But she hadn’t turned up to the observation deck with the others when they landed.

The others had seemed content to leave her be; naturally, that made Lance more determined than ever to figure out where she was hiding.

He didn’t know why he didn’t think to check the Paladin’s quarters earlier, but sure enough, when he quietly stepped into bedroom after hours of searching the Castle several times over, there she was.

She sat on the floor in front of her bed, her chin resting on her drawn up knees, and Lance noted with curiosity that she was dressed in full armor except for her helmet. Her room was dark, save for the dim teal glow of the emergency panel lights that lined the room, and the indicator lights on her armor. In her hand, her bayard, not formed into her usual katar, but glowing a faint green regardless. She stared at it, almost despondently.

“Hey, Pidgey,” Lance called softly, leaning against the doorway. “Mind if I join you?” Pidge didn’t so much as twitch, but she didn’t say no, either. Lance took that as permission granted and moved to sit beside her on the floor. They sat for a long while in a silence that wasn’t quite comfortable, but wasn’t exactly tense.

When it became clear that Pidge wasn’t going to speak first, Lance took it upon himself to fill the void. “This is your first time to Asenbel, right?” he asked, fully expecting her not to answer. He stared straight ahead, focusing on the corner of her desk. “You should go out and appreciate it while we’re here. Crystal blue ocean as far as the eye can see, and super fine pink sand and palm trees everywhere. Or, trees that look like palm trees, anyway. It kinda reminds me of Playa Varadero. I wish I’d thought to bring you guys here before.”

Truth be told, he had; long before they’d taken on Zarkon the first time, when he still piloted Blue, he and Keith had liberated this planet on their own. He could scarcely recall the details of that particular mission, smack dab in the frenzy of taking back planet after planet from Galra rule. But he’d never forgotten about the beaches of Asenbel, how his breath had been stolen from him at the first sight of them, nor the hope that one day he could show it to them.

That day had finally come, Lance supposed. He just wished it was under better circumstances. A wry smile tugged at his lips.

“Guess we never did have time for a beach vacation, huh? Too busy saving the universe and all that.”

Still no response, so he allowed himself a sideways glance at Pidge. She’d finally stopped staring at her bayard, only moving so that her forehead rested on her knees instead. Lance drew a long, weary breath, forcing it past it lips.

“You don’t have to sit up here and deal with things alone, Pidge,” he said finally, after another long pause. “I’ll bet you’ll feel better if you talked to someone.”

“I can’t.”

Lance blinked in surprise. “She speaks!” he said, half-joking and hoping to get some kind of reaction. When he didn’t, he frowned. “Can’t what? Can’t talk to someone?”

Time, it seemed, was what Pidge needed, so Lance wisely kept his mouth shut and waited for Pidge to collect herself. When she did, she finally drew a shaky breath and raised her head, focusing her gaze back on the bayard she still held loosely in her hands.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered. “I can’t… why can’t I…” she gripped the bayard tighter, gritting her teeth.

Lance didn’t understand. Could she not form her katar? He watched in confusion as she focused intently on the bayard, her eyes alight with determination and almost a desperation. Heartbeats passed, but nothing happened; the bayard simply continued to glow in the darkness of the room. Pidge growled in frustration.

“Why can’t I just do this one thing?!” she cried, raising her arm to throw the bayard across the room.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Lance shouted, startled. He caught her by the wrist before she could actually follow through. Pidge winced back like she’d been shocked, pulling her arm back down and out of Lance’s grasp. The hand that held the bayard quivered terribly.

“I just have to do this one thing,” Pidge said, her voice shaking almost as much as her hand. “Just once. I just… just have to… they’re counting on me, I have to…” She brought her other hand up to the bayard as well, as though she hoped to steady herself.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Lance soothed. He leaned forward and put both of his hands on top of hers. Another shiver visibly ran up Pidge’s arms and down her back, and her breath hitched in her throat. But he held his hands firm to hers, and soon her shaking had quelled. “Just breathe. It’s okay.”

Pidge drew in a deep breath, and another, and closed her eyes. Her hands still gripped the bayard so tightly he thought she might crush it between her fingers, but he could feel her focus radiating off of her. The glow of the bayard brightened beneath their hands, and soon it had shifted form. Lance’s eyes widened as the light elongated, much larger than Pidge’s usual weapon. When the light had faded, in Pidge’s hand sat a long-muzzle rifle not unlike his own.

Lance wasn’t the only one surprised; Pidge stared at the rifle in her hands in disbelief. “I did it,” she breathed. Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes and she gingerly pulled the rifle for closer inspection. Lance let his hands fall away, his mouth still hanging open. “I… I actually did it.”

“You really did it,” Lance murmured, still awestruck. He hadn’t even realized that that was what she’d been trying to do. “I’m proud of you, Pidge.”

Pidge stared at the rifle another moment longer before she clutched it to her chest, hanging her head again as she, too, began to cry in earnest. It started as small whimpers, gradually increasing in volume until she wept openly and loudly, a stark contrast against the quiet of the room. Lance could only watch helplessly as she cried. He couldn’t bring himself to comfort her; unlike with Allura and Coran, he wasn’t sure if trying to hug her would help or make it worse. In the end, he settled for staying there with her, hoping his presence was a comfort, and not unwelcome.

How long he sat there with Pidge as she cried, he didn’t know. After a time, she slowly started to collect herself, tears slowing and cries turning to occasional heaving gasps. She was just wiping at her eyes, still clinging to the rifle, when the door slid open and Matt let himself in.

Both Lance and Pidge jumped, and their heads snapped up. Matt’s face was expressionless, his lips set into a hard line, but his eyes softened when they landed on his little sister.

“Katie,” he said quietly. “It’s time.”

 

* * *

_Fill to me the parting glass_  
_And drink a health whate'er befalls_  
_Then gently rise and softly call,  
"Good night, and joy be to you all."_

* * *

 

He found everyone gathered next to the shoreline, just a ways off from where they had parked the Castle further inland.

The evening suns had set the sea aglow in brilliant shades of indigo and violet, the air still as still could be. Beside the sea, the Paladins, all in their armor, formed a half circle around Coran, dressed in vivid pinks instead of his usual blue formal wear. Some thirty or so rebels and a handful of Blade of Marmora members joined them, falling in line behind the Paladins. Along with Queen Luxia, Plaxum, Blumfump and Swirn, a delegation of merfolk had been escorted from their ice planet, floating delicately a few yards out where the tide wouldn’t wash them ashore.

In the center of it all, a hand-built canoe rested where the shore met the sea, water gently lapping against the underbelly. An unlit lantern hung from its bow, the shadow it cast from the evening suns falling across the face of the body that lie inside it.

Coran stood with his back to the sea, addressing the majority of the congregation before him. When everyone had assumed their approximate positions and fallen into silence, the Altean advisor took that as his cue to begin, and cleared his throat.

“Precious friends,” Coran said, “and treasured allies. It is with the heaviest of hearts that we are gathered here today, to mourn the passing of the Bl—the Red Paladin of Voltron. Our Lance McClain."

Lance settled himself on top of one of the sporadic boulders that lined the beach, watching his own funeral from above.

All things considered, Lance thought he looked pretty good. They’d done a good job of cleaning him up. His face was slack and peaceful, like he might have just been sleeping. They’d put him in full Paladin armor except for his helmet, which he presumed they’d kept to give to his mother, if they ever made it back to Earth. His beloved jacket was folded neatly and tucked beneath his head like a pillow in the canoe. His arms were placed across his chest, one hand resting atop another.

Coran spoke first, of how it was because of Lance that the Paladins as they knew them came to be, of how it was his initial bond with the Blue Lion that brought them all together. He spoke of how Lance had grown so much over his time with them. How Lance had so readily taken up the fight as a Paladin, a responsibility that was not his cross to bear; how he’d become the glue that held them together and a light that shone even in the darkest of times. His voice became increasingly cracked and warbled as he spoke, struggling to find the words at times.

“Lance was as selfless in death as he was in life,” he choked out. “For without his sacrifice, we would not be standing here before you all today.”

The details were fuzzy, Lance had to admit. He didn’t really remember much of the actual dying part. What he _did_ remember, very vividly, was the way his stomach lurched in panic when he realized his team, his _family_ , was in danger, and the determination that he’d do whatever it took to keep them safe.

And he had. He’d even taken a general or two down with him, too, if he recalled correctly. He was pretty proud of that.

At last, Coran could speak no more. “If anyone has any parting words they’d like to say, I invite you to offer them now,” he rasped. He moved aside, standing next to Allura on the left side of the semi-circle. She reached over and placed a hand on his shoulder briefly, offering as much comfort as she could muster.

Opposite her, Hunk moved forward first, clutching a satchel made of dark Thrassin silk. Lance could see the red rimming his eyes and the green tinge to his face as he approached the canoe, placing the satchel gingerly at his body’s side.

“I’m sorry there aren’t many,” Hunk said apologetically, scarcely loud enough for Lance to hear. “But I know they’re your favorite. You have to make them last, okay? Don’t eat them all at once. You’ve got a long journey ahead of you.”

It hit Lance all at once, what was in the satchel—the cookies Hunk had made. A twinge of guilt ate at Lance, and his heart broke all over again watching Hunk barely keep from falling to his knees beside the canoe. He would never trade places with any of them, that much was true, but he deeply regretted hurting them like this.

“I just…I’m really going to miss you, buddy,” Hunk whimpered, before scurrying back to his place in the half-circle.

Allura moved next, with all the grace a princess would hold. She knelt beside the canoe, and Lance saw a flash of silver he recognized as ancient Altean currency—Coran had shown him once—as she pressed two coins beneath the folded hands.

“ _Cast the boat, take a ride. Cross the rift to the other side_ ,” she recited softly. Lance figured it must have been part of usual Altean funeral rites. But her stoic face held for only a second more, and he saw the way her chin quivered as she rose and made a hasty retreat. He’d grown to love Allura like a sister, and he hated to see one so strong so broken like she was.

After a moment, Pidge stepped forward. She slipped the glasses Matt had given to her from her face, hesitating with a gulp before she placed them on top of the cookie satchel. She was careful not to actually touch anything besides the wire frame.

“I want these back,” she said, her voice completely wrecked. “So take care of them until I see you next, you hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” Lance murmured, wishing not for the first time that he could just reach over and pull her into the biggest hug he could muster. As if she heard him (though he knew she did not), she nodded slightly, her eyes bright, before she spun on her heel and returned quickly to her spot.

Next was Keith, who seemed reluctant to move from his spot. He seemed both larger and smaller than Lance remembered, and he wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that it’d been so long since he’d seen his friend don his red armor. A twinkle in the evening light drew his attention from those thoughts when Keith finally stepped forward, though, and he almost gasped. In Keith’s hand was his treasured space trash rosary. How Keith had managed to find it, Lance didn’t know—he was sure it’d been lost to space when he died.

“You can’t forget this one,” Keith was saying as he wound the length of cord around the folded hands with great care. “I won’t be around to make you another one.” When the rosary was secured to his satisfaction, he placed a hand of his own atop them. “…I won’t leave again, Lance. I’ll keep them safe,” he promised, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lance couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips, despite everything. “That’s all I ask, man. Just as long as you promise to keep yourself safe, too.”

Keith said nothing more, lingering a moment longer before he, too, resumed his post.

A heartbeat passed, then two, and a few heads turned to look at Shiro expectantly. But in Shiro’s hands, he held nothing to offer, and his ragged breaths spoke louder than any words he could have spoken. Lance certainly wouldn’t hold it against him; especially not when the last thing he remembered was Shiro holding him close, stroking his hair as he took his last, gasping breath. Finally, Shiro shook his head, only slightly, and Coran took that as answer enough.

A few others took the opportunity to step up, then, bidding farewell to the warrior they’d fought alongside for so long. The Paladins weren’t the only ones shedding tears, either; suspicious sniffles drifted their way up from the back of the gathered crowd.

When the last mourner returned to their spot in the crowd, Coran resumed his position at the center of the half-circle, this time facing the canoe. “Lance, my boy,” he whispered. “This is not goodbye. It is good night. Rest well, lad. You’ve earned your sleep.” Then he reached for the canoe cover, his hands trembling as he took one last look before placing it lightly over the top. When his fingers let it drop into place, the heavy wood sealed over with a solid thump that echoed of finality.

Coran nodded over to the merfolk, who took it from there. Plaxum and Blumfump each took a line that had been attached to the canoe and gave them a mighty tug, towing it out to sea. Queen Luxia swam up the center to the lantern that hung from the bow and, striking two flint stones together, lit the candle inside. The remainder of the merfolk delegation keened a mournful song as the canoe was towed further and further out to sea.

Lance watched the whole procession with a muted kind of sorrow of his own. It was weird; in a way, he was mourning too, not because he’d lost his life, but because his family was grieving because of him. This was the one hurt he could not protect them from.

The Paladins all readied their bayards, and Lance watched as all five of them formed the long-muzzle rifles that Pidge had struggled so desperately to master, earlier. Coran stepped to the side once more, tears flowing freely down his cheeks now.

“Ready, Paladins,” he called. Five guns cocked. “Aim, fire!” The sound was more akin to actual rifle shots than blaster shots, a sound Lance hadn’t heard in so long he almost thought he’d imagined it. He closed his eyes and soaked it in as the volleys rang out twice more, and if he tried hard enough, he could pretend he was on Earth. The beaches of Asenbel did remind him so of home, after all.

When the echoes of the last volley tapered off into silence, Lance opened his eyes again. The others were all crying to various degrees, their bayards reverted to their base forms in their grasps. The suns were just about to sink below the horizon, and the canoe and its lantern were long gone from sight. Lance leapt down from his perch atop the rock and moved to stand before them, in the place where his canoe had sat.

The majority of the others stared longingly out to sea, their eyes desperately searching for one last glimpse of him. But Shiro stood with his head down, fists clenched at his side as he wept silently. Lance could almost _taste_ the remorse, there, the denial amidst the grief.

Shiro hadn’t yet said goodbye.

“Shiro,” he called gently. He willed his words to reach his leader, his friend. “You need to let me go.”

Shiro gasped almost imperceptibly, his head coming up in a quick snap. His eyes, too, searched, but saw nothing. Lance knew he wouldn’t. Shiro’s mouth fell open, slightly, and perhaps Lance’s words did not reach his ears, but reached his heart, instead. Taking a deep breath, Shiro drew his right arm up in a salute. The action startled the others, albeit slightly, before they slowly moved to follow suit.

“You’re relieved of your duties, Lance,” Shiro whispered. Lance smiled, and saluted back.

And as the last of the dying evening light faded, so too, did Lance.

 

* * *

_Fill to me the parting glass_  
_And gather as the evening falls_  
_Then gently rise and softly call,  
"Good night, and joy be to you all."_

* * *

 

At the precise moment the suns sank below the horizon, the wind picked up. Where the air had been so terribly still all night, it became a gentle breeze that danced around them now, playing with their hair and tickling their faces.

Inexplicably, the wind felt warm and light and so, so _blue_.

 

 

 

* * *

  _"Good night, and joy be to you all."_

* * *

 

 

 

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/141719787@N07/29984154798/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/141719787@N07/42044968260/in/dateposted-public/)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/141719787@N07/42044968940/in/dateposted-public/)

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this almost non-stop for two days and I'm so glad I'm done because this has been making me so freaking SAD but it wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it and I somehow ended up with nearly 20 pages of Lance watching everyone cry over his death. My bad. (Sorry, it's 4am and I'm tIRED.)
> 
> In case you're wondering about the rosary, it's essentially referencing...a fic...that I haven't written yet.... TL;DR Keith has Hunk and Pidge help him make Lance a rosary out of space trash for his birthday after finding out he's Catholic. That's somewhere on my wip list so look forward to that at some point. As for how Lance died; that's entirely up to you to decide. I left it vague on purpose. Just know he died protecting those he loved.
> 
> That's it. That's all I got. I hope you ~~cried with me~~ enjoyed the fic. Please let me know what you thought!


End file.
